


Bad Day

by SimplySix



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Picfic, Romance, Stalker, Unrequited Love, based off a drawing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplySix/pseuds/SimplySix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people forget their lunch or their big presentation on bad days.  Some people get beat up for their lunch money.  If you were the BLU Spy, you got wailed on for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; and it is only made worse when the enemy Sniper that has been stalking you happens to find you ripe for the picking. </p><p>Bad days truly are miserable if you are the BLU Spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raaawrbin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Raaawrbin).



> This was based off of a collection of drawings and captions from TUMBLR/DA ARTIST Raaawrbin.
> 
> She gave me permission to distribute this story based on her work.

**Bad Day**

**by Jupiter Green**

_Based on Artwork by raaawrbin_

…………………

It had been a bad day, that’s all. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and a couple of the REDs had felt the need to play rough. It wasn’t as if he faulted them for it. It was their job to protect the Intelligence as much as it was _his_ job to _steal_ it.

The BLU Spy stumbled through the neutral ground outside of 2Fort.

The bloody, swollen right eye was making things difficult. His equilibrium was knocked off by a blow from what he thought had been the RED Heavy’s fists, but he was beginning to think he’d been hit with that damned Soldier’s shovel. Needless to say, should any of them decide to come back for Round Two, he would not be able to fight them off.

Blood slid from wounds in his forehead and his nose. The taste of iron made him sick to his stomach as his boots crunched on the gravel. He did not have much farther to go. If he just kept his focus on his feet, he’d be back to Base in no time.

“Spy? Is that you?”

The BLU Spy’s head came up in a slow, startled terror.

He knew that voice. He knew it, instantly.

“Holy Dooley! What happened to ya?”

The Spy’s eyes narrowed. His half-finished cigarette hung pathetically from between bloody lips as he turned around. His suit was disheveled and torn. His body was aching and bruised. He felt like he was on the verge of crying. It wasn’t so much the pain, but the fact that after enduring a two hour drum solo on his kidneys he was going to have to face _him_.

And there was no one around and nowhere to run.

The RED Sniper lifted the hat off of his head and stared at his bloody enemy. He had heard some of his teammates hollering down below his Nest that afternoon but he hadn’t imagined they’d cornered somebody. He stared at the tense, frightened Spy he’d been chasing since he got to the desert.

It wasn’t as if he _tried_ to stalk the Spy. He just didn’t know how to explain to him how he felt about him. So, he tried to show it the only way he knew how – as a Sniper.

The plan wasn’t exactly working out as he had hoped.

He nervously held his hat in his hands and shook his head.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” he offered pathetically. “Oi’m off the clock!”

This did not reassure the Frenchman. The Spy backed up against the wall of one of the many run down shacks in the area. His eyes looked around for escape. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that he could only see out of one eye.

“Hey, now! Oi’m serious!” the RED Sniper said firmly. “Who did this to you?”

The BLU Spy did not answer. Instead, he stood silently looking down at the ground. He had resigned to this fate. It had been a bad day, after all. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and it was going to end as badly as it had begun.

Maybe this time the bloody fool wouldn’t shoot him with another phallic bullet again.

There was hope for that, at least.

The Spy did not stop the Sniper when the Australian advanced and slid rough, gentle fingers up his injured cheek. He kept his eyes firmly adverted as the heat from the taller body transferred to his.

He was defeated.

He did not care.

“Who did this, eh? Tell me and oi’ll give you their fingers.”

The Spy turned his gaze to the Sniper. He could see the man staring at him sympathetically. His ridiculous doe eyes were large behind his glasses. He was serious.

“I wish you would stop sending those to me, _mon ami_. I do not know what to do with a dozen dismembered fingers in boxes.”

The Frenchman’s voice was soft and slow. Blood dripped from between his lips making his words slurred and difficult to understand. He looked away again as the Sniper winced.

“Then. . .then oi’ll just. . .just beat the piss outta them!” the Sniper tried. “I. . .I won’t let them get away with this.”

The Spy did not answer. He kept staring at the ground waiting for it to be over.

Not knowing what else to do, the Sniper put the hat back on his head and grabbed the Spy’s hand.

“Come on, mate. Let’s go.”

The Spy became nervous and resisted.

“What are you talking about? Unhand me!”

“Yer stumblin’ around here in RED Territory, you know that?” the Sniper asked, seriously. “You ain’t nowhere near home and if Doe catches you out here you won’t survive the night, you understand me?”

The Spy was surprised by the stress in the Sniper’s voice. He stared at the Sniper carefully before slowly pulling the cigarette from his mouth and putting it out in the sand.

He really was having a bad day.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Back to my place.” the Sniper answered. “Yer face looks like the Big Guy smashed it to pieces. Oi’ll patch you up and then you can go back to yer own Base when you can walk straight.”

The Spy watched the Sniper suspiciously.

“Nothing else? You are not going to. . .to shoot me with. . .some. . . _love potion_ or some nonsense?”

The Sniper smiled helplessly.

“Only if ya want me to, mate.”

The Frenchman sighed and allowed the Australian to pull him along.

“Fine, bushman.” he breathed. “I cannot see properly, anyway, so it’s not like I can fight back. Besides, I have swallowed enough of my own blood for the night.”

Someone may as well have given the Sniper Smissmiss early. The Australian grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

“No worries, love. I will take care o’ya. Come on.”

Without another word, the BLU Spy allowed the RED Sniper to lead him off the battlefield.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Part Two: Stuck in the Middle

**Part Two**

 

“Ain’t that better? Ya ain’t bleedin’ all over anymore.”

The BLU Spy stared at the RED Sniper with his one, good eye. He hated to admit that his enemy was right, but after having the wounds cleaned and dressed they did not sting or hurt as badly as before. He watched the Sniper rise to his feet and set the First Aid Kit aside.

The Sniper’s home was not as filthy as he had imagined. Well, he had imagined very little considering it was a _camper_. However, the Australian kept his small space neat and tidy. Not to mention, it did not reek of his awful Jarate as he had imagined it would.

“Here.”

The Spy was startled as the Sniper held out a cigarette. He stared curiously.

“Come on, now. It’s one of yours!” the Sniper laughed. “Oi just fished it out of your jacket pocket. Didn’ want’ta be getting’ none of yer stuff wet.”

“My jacket?”

The Sniper nodded.

“Gotta get the blood outta yer shirt and jacket, roight?” he asked genuinely. “Yer pretty meticulous about yer clothes. I got ‘em soaking. That’s why I gave ya the blanket. It shouldn’t take too long. When they’re dry, you can go home.”

The Spy pulled the edges of the blanket over his bare chest and blushed slightly. He stared down at the floor for a moment before nodding.

“ _Merci_.”

The Sniper grinned like an idiot.

“Yer welcome.”

The Spy put the cigarette between his lips and watched the Australian carefully. His eye was narrow as the bushman pulled a box of matches from his vest and struck one against the side.

“Hold still, darl.”

The Frenchman made no attempt to move or pull away. He allowed the Sniper to complete his task before inhaling deeply and enjoying the taste of tobacco rather than blood. He exhaled and watched the Australian put the match out. He waited a moment before smiling faintly.

Perhaps this Sniper was not so bad after all.

 

 


	3. Part Three: In the End?

**Part Three**

The night sounds echoed outside as the Sniper hummed out of tune from the other side of the camper. The Spy watched his unlikely rescuer carefully wringing out his jacket and shirt. He was surprised. Much of the blood and dirt had come out and it didn’t look like the garment had shrunk an inch!

Perhaps this bushman knew more than how to shoot a gun at people.

“You are strange, _mon ami_.” the Spy said aloud.

The Sniper stopped what he was doing and looked at the Spy curiously.

“Strange?”

“You kill people for a living. You kill _me_ for a living. Yet, you saved me. Now, you are cleaning my clothes better than the man I _pay_ to clean them.” the Spy answered.

The Sniper frowned.

“That guy couldn’t get the stain outta a piece of clothin’ if it whispered the secret to him. Just like that girl at the bookstore don’t know the difference between Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot.”

The Spy sat away from the wall and stared at the Sniper.

The Australian blushed furiously and turned away.

“You really _have_ been stalking me!”

The Sniper winced and turned back to the Spy helplessly.

“It ain’t. . .stalkin’, mate!” he cried softly. “I just. . .I just don’. . .don’t know. . .how to act around you!”

“Like a mercenary.” the Spy answered with a frown.

He stared at the gunman until the taller man turned away, hurt. He stared at the RED’s back while the Sniper continued to hang up his clothes to dry. He hated to admit it, but he felt bad for what he had said.

It’s just. . .he _was_ a stalker!

For God’s Sake, this man had pictures of his _crotch_!

The Spy didn’t want to think about what the Sniper did with his likeness. It was more than he could handle with a painful headache and a deep desire to sleep.

He shivered and huddled deeper into his blanket.

“You are right, you know.” he whispered.

The Sniper turned back around.

“Oi am?” he asked.

The Spy nodded.

“The girl at the bookstore.” he answered. “She did not know the difference between Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Worse, she tried to sell me a book completely unrelated to the two. Of course, any one could mistake the Queen of Mystery for some Harlequin Romance writer.”

The Australian hissed.

“Oi shoulda taken her fingers.”

“Why do you _do_ that?” the Spy asked seriously. “What good does it do to take their _fingers_!?”

“They can’t touch you if they don’t have fingers.” the Sniper answered gravely. “They can’t hurt you if I keep takin’ em.”

The Spy was startled by this response. He stared for a long while as the Sniper finished his work and smoothed out the lapels of his jacket to dry. He watched the gunman as he came back to sit on the floor beside the bed.

“ _Pardonnez-moi_. . .”

“Stay.”

It wasn’t a command as much as it was a request. There was a plea in the Sniper’s voice. The Spy could tell he was resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

He stared for a moment longer before nodding and huddling into the corner of the bunk.

“You okay? Are you cold?” the Sniper asked, worriedly.

“Your Soldier stole my fedora.” the Spy said softly. “I get cold easily.”

Without another word, the Sniper lifted the hat from his head and set it on the Spy’s. The Spy was surprised.

This was the bushman’s _favourite_ hat.

“You can have moine then.” the Sniper said proudly. “Oi’m sorry them bastards stole yours. I’ll get it back.”

“It is. . .really all right.”

The Spy was lost in the smell of the leather and the soap that the Sniper used. It was comforting. It felt safe and he was beginning to feel too at ease. Between the romp with his coworkers and the tension in the camper with his stalker, the BLU Spy was exhausted.

“Oi won’t do anything, Spy. Oi promise.”

The Spy wearily looked at the Sniper on the floor. His eyelids were drooping as he winced.

“You are the enemy. . .”

“Not until Oi punch in tomorrow.” the Sniper corrected. “C’mon, mate. Yer exhausted! ‘Sides, yer clothes won’t be dry fer awhile. Why don’tcha sleep? You’ll feel better.”

The Spy glared suspiciously.

“You won’t _do_ anything to me?”

The Sniper held up his hands submissively.

“Oi won’t do nothin’ to ya!” he repeated. “Oi won’t!”

The Frenchman stared at the Australian. He sized up the man’s offer before resigning to accepting it. It had been a horrible day. Yet, this man had made it a little less so. The least he could do was humour him.

The Sniper watched the Spy nod off against the side of his bunk. He stared longingly at the man he’d pined for since he’d come to the Badlands. He ached to reach out and touch the soft, bruised flesh and make the pain go away.

He wanted to keep this Spy for himself.

When the Spy had begun to snore softly, the Australian silently opened the drawer under his bed. He pulled out a worn, battered sewing box and began pulling things out of it. He stared at the Spy for a moment, and looked at his shrine of pictures along his wall before setting to work on a blue shirt he had stolen from the Spy several months prior.

He worked in silence, the sound of the night echoing around him. Scissors softly cut through fabric and thick, calloused fingers slid thread through the eye of a needle. Black buttons became the eyes he could lose himself within. The blue fabric became the mask he someday wished to take off from the real thing.

After a few hours, the Sniper’s head was pressed up against one of his pillows. He leaned against the opposite side of his bunk and watched the Spy sleep. He pulled the needle through the balaclava of Mini BLU Spy one more time before tying the thread.

He stared at his creation with a calm, peaceful smile before looking past it to the real thing.

” _Someday_.” he told himself.

Someday, he would _earn_ the real thing.

But for now, Mini BLU would have to do.


End file.
